


Orbital Mechanics

by lferion



Category: Alliance-Union universe - Cherryh
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Yuletide, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is where the heart is — intimacy as an expression of the two-body problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orbital Mechanics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sanj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanj/gifts).



> Written for Sanj for Yuletide 2008. Upload 740, 20 Dec 2008.  
> Thank you Auberus and Reshcat, beta-readers, cheerleaders and sanity-keepers extraordinare.
> 
> These characters are from Cyteen and Regenesis

When Grant thought of 'home' he always thought of the apartment that had been Justin's and his, just the two of them, seventeen and, oh, not 'on their own' precisely, not with Jordan and Paul close by, and the rest of the Family, the House, the whole of Reseune only a Minder call away, but as near as could be in such an environment. They'd moved - been moved? Oddly neither of them could quite recall how it had been that they had ended up back in the apartment they had grown up in, Jordan and Paul's apartment, after Ari's death and everything that had happened. 'Home' wasn't a word he let himself think of much.

Flux-thinking. This was where they lived. 'Home' as CIT's used the word had a good deal more to it.

Justin was restless, moving about the room, pouring drinks for both of them, forgetting to drink his own. Whiskey and water (there was no vodka in the bar, no orange juice in the cold-keep; there never would be), a mild anesthetic, with a smoky, warm taste that wrapped around the bite of the alcohol but never disguised it. Uncomplicated. Grant savored the taste. It was good whiskey. And, like Justin, not really uncomplicated at all.

"Ari named you, you know. Named both of us." Justin was looking at a stat-pic, the four of them, Justin and he no more than eight or nine. Justin had been laughing when the picture was taken. He was serious now, the fall of the light making him look more nearly the thirty-something Jordan in the image than the twenty he was. "I wonder. I wonder if a name itself makes a difference. 'Laurence' instead of Grant, John instead of Justin. Or just without the suffixes...."

"Justin." Grant said softly, catching Justin's eye and glancing up at the ceiling. It wasn't often that Justin spoke disregarding the ever-present threat of Security, and rare, rare indeed that he made mention of Ari, either Ari, even obliquely. Two weeks since the child was born - decanted - delivered into Jane Strassen's arms, and they were both still feeling the effects.

Justin's lips tightened, a white, thin line, and he shivered, the ice in his drink chiming faintly against the glass. The sound seemed to remind him of its existence, and he took a long swallow before carefully relaxing his face and sighing, barely more than a breath. Grant's heart went out to him. (More flux-thinking, endocrine-reaction, but what of it? Feeling - the good and the bad - was part of what made them Human, however they were born.) There was so little he could do for Justin, so little Justin would let him do. (And there were times when it seemed that he held Justin's sanity and balance as tenaciously, carefully, thoroughly as Justin held his own Keys - an Azi supervisor to a suffering (damaged) CIT. And wasn't _that_ a strange way of looking at it.) It never stopped hurting, seeing him so wounded, and Grant never knew if that was azi-stress or born-man pain, but either way it was his.

Justin wandered back over to the couch and sat heavily, tipping his head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. There was the faintest tremor in the fingers that cradled the mostly-empty glass. "Do names matter, Grant? Do you think they make a difference?"

_Is that infant **Ari**? Ari-in-truth, and the name beside the point, mere acknowledgement, or Ari-only-in-potential, the name making her so, or Ari-not-at-all (no more Ari than he was Jordan) and the name a cruel hoax?_

Grant had no answer. He reached out and collected the glass from Justin's tense hands, stood and poured them both another drink. Self-medicating with alcohol. Justin took the refilled glass with a shadow of a smile, more a warmth of glance than any curve of lips. Grant sat at the angle of the couch, close, but not too close, careful lest Justin flinch from his proximity. (And oh, it made Grant angry, frightened and sad, packed tight with feelings he had no names for, that between Ari and Giraud, Ivanov and who knew who else, Justin could tolerate so little being touched, held, comforted; sometimes could barely manage being close to another human being. On the very worst days, even Grant could do no more than be present, a voice, fingertips resting on the pulse at Justin's wrist, so thin a thread to tether him, to hold the shattered pieces together, hoping that time or silence or simple contact could prove a glue.) But Justin reached for him, threaded the fingers of his free hand through Grant's, palm pressed to palm. His hand was cold.

Grant knew what Ari had done to Justin. Had listened with every ounce of his attention, as receptive as if on kat, in the dark of what had been their bed (only ever sleeping, two boys-not-boys clinging together as the only two points of surety in a universe unstable, uncertain) since Justin had rescued him from the far place trauma and heavy-handed probes and the threat to Justin had taken him. Listened while Justin spoke with a quiet, flat, distant voice of his own trauma: the things Ari had done, caused him to feel and experience and do, weighing no word more than another, reporting actions, responses, touches, words, sensations, each detail a piece in the mosaic of event mortared together with an underlying emotional charge - a self-loathing that Grant could witness but not fully comprehend. Justin had spoken as if flensing the words from his soul, vomiting them up and giving them into Grant's keeping. Grant had taken them, understanding that each one had weight and complexity and bitter, brittle edges that he could not himself internalize. Grant knew _what_, not how, not why; but he knew - and this he did understand, like tape - that for Justin, now, any touch, no matter how casual or deliberate, intentional or careless, was sexual. Sexual and shaming.

Grant turned that thought over in his mind as the ice in their drinks melted, as their fingers clung and wove together. _He_ could touch Justin, and he felt no shame in that touch, sexual or not. (He'd done the research, he'd looked up and read about - not tape, not even 'Human Sexuality' which he had had, the azi version, oh, years ago, fifteen he must have been - but books, articles, dry and precise and anatomical, philosophical, analytical and chemical about the 'what' of what Justin had experienced, that Ari had done to him.) If touch for Justin was always sexual, why not acknowledge that, embrace it, name it? Might that not ease the conflict, soothe the stress? And more than acknowledge, act. Let there be a time and place safe for the expression of that need. If all touch was sexual, let there be sexual touch.

Grant looked at their hands twined together, feeling heat suffuse his body, a flood of warmth that started in his core, twin fires in belly and breast, flushing his skin, filling his privates. He would have to be so careful, so careful of them both. There were logistics to consider (security watching, listening, never assume they aren't, never), but that was the kind of fine detail work that Ari had made him to excel at. Logistics were mere details. It would be the doing that mattered. He drew a breath and stepped out into uncharted space.

He tightened his fingers on Justin's, just a fraction, a signal, a 'this is me, this is true, hear me' pressure. Justin looked up at him, uncertainty and fear warring with responsibility, hope and affection with shame, and Grant's heart squeezed and thudded in his chest. "Names matter if we let them matter. Intention matters; but doing matters more." He stood, and tugged Justin upward, not letting go their hands. "Justin matters to Grant. You matter to me. You would matter to me no matter what either of our names were." He had put his own drink down before rising; now he took and set Justin's down as well. Justin was looking at him, still uncertain but no longer afraid. Carefully - so very, very carefully - Grant stepped closer, put his arm around Justin's shoulders, pulled him into an embrace. He could feel Justin's heart thudding, the rigid muscles of his back, but Grant could also feel the heat, the growing interest beginning to press against his own thigh, feel his own flesh responding. Justin's arm found a comfortable place at Grant's waist, holding on, holding tight.

"Come to bed?" Grant asked softly. Justin nodded, dark hair brushing Grant's cheek.

They did no more than sleep that night, holding on to each other, skin warm against skin through the thin cloth of their night clothes. That Justin stayed in the circle of Grant's arms, slept longer and more quietly than he could remember, Grant counted as a victory against all odds.

* * *

In the quiet watch before dawn, Grant woke from a doze to a change in the cadence of Justin's breathing, a tension in the muscles of his back under his hand, and a hot stiffness burning against the tender skin at the join of hip and thigh. Heat of his own was gathering, and he only just kept his hips from arching up, as Justin gasped and blindly tried to shift away. Grant found himself holding on, not letting go, murmuring and nuzzling at Justin's ear and neck. "Shhh. It's ok. I have you. It's ok." Greatly daring, Grant slid one hand down Justin's back (skin like silk, like satin fine and smooth and hot under his fingers) under the loose waist of his sleep-shorts, all the way down to cup one perfect curve of buttock and urge their groins together, not apart. They belonged together. "It's me, Justin. It's ok. This is ok."

Justin shuddered, breathing in broken gasps. "Shouldn't. Don't want to hurt you. Don't want...." But he was clinging to Grant with desperate fingers, and his hips were jerking, trembling with need.

"Shhh. You won't hurt me. You won't. It's ok." Grant eased them over until Justin was on his back, his own hips flexing, their hard lengths moving in delicious friction against each other separated only by damp cloth. The room was dark, Grant could not see Justin's face, could not imagine what his expression might be saying (but then, neither would security - that dark gave them a privacy, needful and necessary, the bedclothes too) but he could almost read his breath, the heat of his skin, the urgent arch of his neck and the toss of his head on the pillow. Grant squeezed the firm muscle of Justin's bottom, feeling his fingers slip into the hot, sweat-slick crease between his cheeks, brush against a softer, hotter, yielding spot. Justin jerked and whimpered. Grant touched that place again, stroking, petting.

The sound Justin made as he arched and writhed could have been Grant's name, but security did not need to hear it. Grant did the only thing he could think of in his own rising need: he kissed him - bumping noses, pressing lips, teeth and tongues sliding, swallowing each other's needy, urgent noises. Electricity raced through him, and it seemed that Grant could feel every place their bodies touched, chests and thighs and hands kissing as much as mouths. He ground their groins together, Justin matching him, holding tight with arms and legs, need driving them against each other in short, sharp thrusts. He felt the rising rush that meant he was almost there, and the wet pulse and jerk of Justin coming, pressing desperately against him took Grant over the edge as well.

For a long moment they lay tangled together, clinging, kissing, aftershocks of pleasure shivering through them both. The blanket had slipped from Grant's shoulders, and the cool air felt good on his heated skin. His sleep-shirt was damp with sweat though, and Justin's must be as well; not to mention the sticky mess they had made of their sleeping pants. Grant shifted his hips, and the feel of Justin's softened length against his made him shiver. With a little sigh, he untangled himself and eased his weight off and over to Justin's side.

Justin curled into him, holding tight, burying his face in Grant's shoulder. His breath hitched and stuttered, and Grant realized that the warm wetness spreading over his heart was tears, that Justin was trying not to cry. Grant's own eyes stung and he blinked and swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. He found one of his hands and cradled the back of Justin's head, unconsciously rocking. He buried his own face in Justin's hair. There had been something in that mass of information about sexual response that made note of how intimacy could invoke deep feeling, healing catharsis, and tears were not necessarily grief, distress, pain. For a long moment Grant could only hope that he had not somehow made things worse by acting, that the article was right, that somehow they would come through even this, if he had been wrong.

But Justin was holding him hard, not flinching from the touch of Grant's hand on his hair, bringing his own hand up to trace the lines of Grant's face, lifting his head to seek Grant's lips in the sheltering dark, kissing him softly. "Thank you." Justin breathed. "Oh god, Grant. That was... was...." Warm fingers brushed his cheeks, and Grant felt his own eyes spill. "Are _you_ ok?" There was wonder in Justin's voice and a note of peace - ease - something approaching joy, shading into concern for Grant, for the dampness his fingers had found.

Grant nodded, not trusting his voice, welcoming the touch of Justin's lips, speaking with his own hands and mouth.

"Thank you." Justin murmured again, tucking himself back into Grant's embrace. Sleep was slowing his movements, and presently his chest rose and fell in deep, even cadence. He was more relaxed than Grant could ever remember. Relief and love and the depth of his own response and release made his eyes well and his chest tighten. (Oh he was well and truly fluxed, his blood a veritable soup of chemicals, and there was something to that, something important, but Grant had no words, no referents, no detail to catch hold of to process more than a feeling of a deep and subtle shift, a profound but intangible difference in the way his body shaped itself to Justin's, and Justin's to his.) Sleep beckoned. Very gently, Grant lay his cheek against Justin's and let it take him.

* * *

They did not speak of the things they did in the night, not the next morning, not in the days that followed; not feeding the fish, not even on the note-slate. Words did not seem to apply to the grace of intimacy, the taste and touch, scent and texture of the ways they found to be together and find release, any more than sight did, though sometimes Grant wished he could see more than the faint shapes and shadows the camera-defeating dark allowed of their lovemaking. It was enough that they had each other. This did not need words.

* * *

They had never made love in the light. Never touched more intimately than hands on shoulders or chaste hugs other than in their bedroom, in their bed, under covers and in the dark. Not in all the years of Ari's growing.

Ari was grown now, grown enough to know her own mind, to make her own choices about who she needed and her own decisions about how to safeguard those she cared about. It was still a shock to Justin that he and Grant were valued, needed, _cared about_ by Ari. Valued enough to be given a real measure of _privacy_. Oh, the minder recorded, but only sound, keyed on certain words and stresses, not every moment, every breath. No visual unless invoked by one of them, specific keys again, and only, ever, for Florian, Catlin, or Ari herself to review. Not tied into the House, only to Base One. And no cameras at all in the bedroom, the bathroom. Ari promised, and somehow, reasonable or not, Justin believed her and Grant concurred. A place of their own. A place of safety.

Justin stepped further into the elegant opulence of their apartment. Housekeeping had found them some colored pillows, and now there was a deep red vase on the sideboard as well, a thing of rich and subtle color. Almost as rich as Grant's hair. (And oh, Justin was glad that the new rejuv didn't strip the color from hair - not of his own vanity, but because the fire of Grant's hair was a thing he loved, and letting his fingers comb the one lock back from Grant's forehead was one of the few public gestures they allowed themselves.) Grant was sitting on the couch, the lamp drawing glints like embers from the disordered waves. It was getting long, curls brushing the nape of Grant's neck.

In a universe of infinite space Grant was his lifeline, both hostage and hope, his responsibility and the keeper of his sanity: the only person he truly, completely trusted. Friend, partner, brother, lover and beloved; Grant was to Justin what air was to breathing, the other half of his self and yet very much his own person.

All these thoughts flickered in Justin's mind, seeing Grant (elegant, beautiful, long clean limbs and contained strength, agile mind and understanding heart) look up at him and smile with unshadowed welcome in his eyes. Familiar warmth pooled in his groin, speeded his pulse. Here, now, there was no reason not to let that desire take its course. By the light in Grant's eyes, the way he shifted on the cushions, letting his legs fall just that little way open, Justin could see that Grant felt the same arousal, wanted the same thing Justin did.

"I know it's early, but, come to bed?" It felt daring, new, to come so close to speaking of what he wanted. Heat spiked deeper, flooding his veins, making him hard, peaking his nipples against the smoothness of his shirt. Justin swallowed and breathed around the tension in his belly, the flutter in his chest. Grant flowed to his feet, all that was beautiful to his senses. Justin watched him cross the space to meet him, and could for a moment hardly breathe. That this man loved him, was his to hold, to cherish, to be held and cherished by smote him to the heart.

"Certainly." There was a grave delight in Grant's expression, a grace to his movement and a distinct bulge in his pants.

Justin shivered. Ridiculous to feel so like a boy at thirty-seven. As Grant came toward him Justin reached out his hand and Grant caught it, lacing their fingers together. If Justin felt like a boy, he could see in Grant still the boy he had been as well, remembered a night when it had been Grant doing the asking, and later the doing. They had fumbled in the dark, but now there was no need for that concealment. Justin was struck with a desire to see, to let his eyes feast on what his other senses knew. He shivered again, and saw that shiver reflected in the quick catch of Grant's breath, and the faint rise of color in his cheeks.

It was an amazement that they did not stumble on the travertine flags paving the hall, but they achieved the bedroom without incident, and Justin leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. "Lights, up a third," to the minder. Then, daring, to Grant, "I'd like." He had to stop, to swallow, to ask. "I'd like to see you."

Grant flushed like sunrise, standing at the foot of the bed, their bed, (their bedroom, in the light, observed only by themselves,) and nodded, fingers unaccountably clumsy on the fastenings of his shirt. It wasn't that they hadn't seen each other unclothed hundreds of times, but this was somehow different, and Justin watched with his heart in his throat and his groin throbbing as Grant removed his shirt and stepped out of his pants, standing revealed and beautifully erect in the soft glow of the ambient illumination. He tidied the clothes away and then moved to stand before Justin with an appreciative glimmer in his eye. Stable as houses. God he loved the man.

Grant leaned in and kissed him gently, reaching with careful fingers to unfasten and strip Justin of his own clothes. "Dr Warrick, you are overdressed," he murmured in Justin's ear.

Justin's cock jumped, and he could feel himself flushing. He would never have thought that title (still new, still a pleasurable surprise) would have _that_ effect, but in Grant's voice it certainly did. It galvanized him, and soon they were tumbling on the big bed, coverlet tugged back, dark sheets setting off the pale, fine grain of Grant's skin, flushed with arousal, sex heavy and jutting proud from a nest of auburn curls. Sweat beaded in the hollow of his throat, sheened the planes of chest and flank, glimmering and winking in the low, clear light as Grant arched and shuddered under his eyes. Justin wasn't sure he'd ever been this hard, and he wanted to fix this moment in memory, every sense engaged and fully alive.

Then he could hold off no longer and closed the distance between their bodies, hands and lips and breath, oil and the crisp spring of curls against his fingers, the slide of thin, hot skin over aching need, the kiss of cock to cock, groins pressing and moving together, simple, timeless rhythm, a dance their bodies knew every motion and permutation of, made astonishingly new in the light. Grant's head was thrown back against the pillow, long throat working, breath coming in gasps and catches. He was close, so close to coming in Justin's hands, his lips soundlessly shaping Justin's name. (So much practice with silence, with learning the signals of movement and breath and muscle. And now to see the result of that knowledge!)

Just a little more pressure, a thumb moving just so over the weeping head, and Grant was coming, jerking and arching under him. It was the most beautiful thing that Justin had ever seen, and it brought him over the edge, shuddering and spilling himself moments after Grant.

They lay together, feeling the aftershocks under each other's skin, enjoying the warm comfort of proximity, and the new wonder of being face to face. Justin watched as Grant opened his eyes, struck with tenderness and love all over again.

Languorously, Grant tugged the coverlet over their twined and cooling limbs, smiling at Justin. "Welcome home," he murmured sleepily as he arranged himself in Justin's arms, eyes closing again.

Justin kissed his eyelids, the tip of his nose. Grant smiled and snuggled closer, rolling his hips against Justin's and sending a last, pleasurable shock through them both. "Welcome home," Justin answered back, quiet and heartfelt, believing for the first time that it was true. This was home: in each other's arms, in their bed, in this their own place.

Home, together, and in the light at last.


End file.
